Giuseppe Potter
by Zauber
Summary: Harry gets a concussion, makes a wish, meets a talking cricket, changes his name, and becomes a walking cliché... Rated T for language.


Disclaimer: Rowling owns Potter, Collodi (or possibly Disney?) owns Pinocchio. On an unrelated note: God rest you Robin Williams – this one's for you.

Warnings: May contain strong language and offensive stereotypes. You are advised not to read if you are Italian, American, any combination of these, in any way politically correct, or you find the idea of a racist cricket makes you uncomfortable. I should also note that this story is not particularly funny... But what the heck, I wrote it, might as well post it.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Harry Meets a Cricket**

"That's the last straw!" Vernon roared, backhanding little Harry onto the lawn. "... and stay out!" he yelled, as he went back inside, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Lying with his head resting comfortably on the rock on which he had fallen, Harry stared up at the afternoon sky, watching brightly coloured stars whirl and tumble above him.

"Heheh, flying stars, falling stars, shooting stars.." Harry mumbled concussedly to himself, "wait, I've heard something about shooting stars. You're supposed to make a wish on them." He tried thinking of a good wish to make, but all it did was cause his head to ache, so he gave up. Sighing, he closed his eyes and muttered "I wish I was a real boy."

No sooner had the words left his lips, then there was a tremendous boom, causing Harry to leap to his feet in shock. Looking wildly about, it took him a few seconds to spot the impatient waving of a small cricket, wearing a top hat and tail coat, hovering in front of him.

"How are you doing that?" Harry asked.

"Magic umbrella" the cricket replied, drawing an umbrella larger than he was from an inside pocket of his coat and showing it to him.

"Oh, that makes sense" Harry said, "But how do you get your hat to stay on when you're flying?"

"Magic hat" the cricket answered as he doffed it politely, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes.

Harry nodded. "I see. So, how do-" he started to say, before being interrupted. "Now now Harry," the cricket said, "No one wants to read about you quizzing an anthropomorphic cricket about his magic outfit. So, let's cut to the chase, shall we?"

"Anthropowhatty?" Harry asked, brow furrowed.

"It means.. Look, nevermind what it means. We've only got a few minutes before your concussion wears off, so do you want the ultimate secret of incredible power or what?

Eyes wide, Harry rapidly nodded his head, which seemed to please the cricket.

"Ok, now the real secret is the _source_ of the ultimate power. You see, the mysterious secret origin is none other than..." The cricket paused dramatically, as Harry heard a faint drum roll in the background. Excitement overflowing, he couldn't resist the urge to interrupt. "Merlin?" Harry asked.

"What? No." The cricket said, looking at him askance. "The secret origin is..."

"Atlantis?" Harry interjected, interrupting the drum roll again.

"No! Of course it's not bloody Atlantis, don't be ridiculous."

"Is it my Boomstick?" Harry asked, vaguely picturing something shotgun-like

"How could it... I mean, what?" The cricket said, vaguely picturing something completely different.

"I know! I know!" Harry said, practically dancing from excitement, "The secret source of power is Love!"

The crickets jaw fell to the floor in shock. After picking it up an reattaching it, then putting it back the right way around, the cricket set him straight. "Love? Love? That's the stupidest thing I ever heard! No no no, the real secret of ultimate power is the Italian-American Stereotype!"

**Chapter 2: The Cricket Is An Ass**

"The Italian-American Stereotype?" Harry asked.

"Yes! The Italian-American Stereotype! So, you want the secret of ultimate power or should I just bugger off then?"

Harry considered this for a moment. It sounded pretty ridiculous, but then again, it wouldn't be much of a story if he just dismissed it out of hand, so he decided to give it a go.

"Alright then" Harry said, "What do I need to do?"

"The first thing you need to do" The cricket said, drawing a cardboard box several times large than himself out from behind his back, "is to get on the appropriate diet. That means exclusively pizza and pasta, just like the real Italians."

"Hold on" Harry said hesitantly, "Doesn't Italy have a rich culinary heritage, being particularly note for the exceptional quality and variety of their seafood dishes?"

"No." The cricket said shortly, tossing the box to him. "What part of stereotype did you misunderstand? Just eat the bloody pizza."

"That I can do! "Harry said delightedly, opening the box. "Ew! Pineapple? I hate pineapple..."

"Yeah, well, Italy's full of it. Whole place is just crawling with pineapple trees and whatnot."

"Wait, the pineapple is a tropical plant, originally from South America, and can't grow in the italian climate."

"What are you, channelling wikipedia? Ster-e-o-type. Look it up. Now, the next thing you need to do is to grow a proper moustache."

"Yurfle eeble arfl marfl afalfa?" Harry said, his mouth filled with pizza. After swallowing (loudly) he tried again. "You realize I'm only eight, right? I can't grow a moustache."

"That's no problem" Jim said, gesturing grandly, "Not with the power of magic! Behold!"

Reaching up to touch his newly grown moustache, Harry noticed something strange. "Who's Jim?"

"That's me," the cricket said, "I guess I never got around to introducing myself. Jimminy Cricket, at your service!" he declaimed, bowing with a flourish. "Just don't squash me with a hammer, and we'll be fine."

"Why would I squash you with a hammer?" Harry asked.

"Don't ask me, but the number of times it's happened during these real-boy-wish-grantings, I'm starting to think there's something to it. Now, the final and most important part of the stereotype: Language."

"You mean I have to speak Italian?"

"No, you don't need to worry about that. Everyone knows Italians don't actually speak Italian, they just speak broken eeng-lish with an Italian accent. And so must you!"

"Right. Setting aside for now the whole idea of Italians not speaking Italian, how exactly do I speak this, what was it, broken eeng-lish?"

"It's how you say" Jim replied.

"How you say what?" Harry asked.

"Exactly!" Jim said.

"Exactly what?"

"Exactly how you say." Jim replied again, pleased that Harry was picking it up so quickly.

"That's what I'm asking you!" Harry said, confused.

"Whoa now, what's on second, but we really don't want to go there. Let's try something else: Just stick an -a on the end of you words. Like-a this-a!"

"You-a want-a me-a to-a speak-a like-a this-a?" Harry asked

"Precisely!" Jim said, "You're getting the hang of it. Now, don't forget to wave your hands, and... This-a is-a speaking, how you say-a, broken eeng-lish!" Glancing down, the cricket noticed that his feet were starting to fade. "Ah too bad, it looks like we're running out of time here. One last thing before I go..."

"Yes?" Harry asked.

"It's your name – Harry is just no good. From now on, you are called... Giuseppe!"

With that, the cricket (and the pizza) faded away completely, leaving Harry to wonder if they had ever really been there. At least, until he noticed his newly grown moustache tickling his lip.

...

"It's-a me-a, Giuseppe!"


End file.
